


The More I Seek

by SaltCore



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: (nobody actually bites it), Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, BAMF Jesse McCree, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Pining, background justice siblings, major character death adjacent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-30 18:37:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20101798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaltCore/pseuds/SaltCore
Summary: "I lived better when I was ignorant of the sun tucked away in your chest" - Amrit Brar





	The More I Seek

Almost two months after guilt drives Hanzo into the halls of Watchpoint: Gibraltar, Jesse McCree arrives.

He walks into an enthusiastic greeting, his former friends and comrades making up a goodly portion of Strike Commander Winston’s current recruits. The rest, Hanzo aside, have recently been regaled with stories that surely only bear a passing resemblance to the truth but have engendered a certain excitement nonetheless.

Hanzo is caught between the sense he ought to be present for appearance’s sake and a deep seated desire to go do something useful _ away_. McCree and Genji were—no, _ are_—good friends. Brothers in arms. Hanzo’s presence in the greeting party is at best superfluous; at worst it might cause some sort of scene. Unable to resolve the competing impulses, he hangs back to watch the arrival unfold.

McCree cuts a striking, if eccentric, figure, handsome, but in the way many men are. Tall and broad, he still moves with a strange kind of grace. He floats through the crowd that formed to meet him, greeting old friends and charming new recruits, managing to neither bump anyone nor turn his back to someone new. It’s a paranoid kind of dance, but so well executed even Hanzo isn’t sure he’d have noticed up close.

Then Hanzo remembers this man has been on the run for years with an ever increasing bounty on his head. Ever increasing, because he’s still not been caught. His paranoia is well founded, his instincts well tuned for survival. 

Which makes his decision to come here puzzling. Surely he must know that Winston, while not reckless, certainly isn’t planning to lay low. Perhaps he finds this attempt to rebuild Overwatch as compelling as Genji did. 

The crowd eventually turns to seek shelter from the Gibraltar sun, and Hanzo thinks he’ll be spared making introductions. He turns, ready to take the long way back to the lab he’d been cleaning out so the engineers and scientists could expand, when he hears Genji call his name. He allows himself a moment to grit his teeth, then schools his expression into something neutral and looks back. Genji is dragging McCree over.

“Jesse, this is my brother,” Genji says. There’s a certain overblown bluster in his tone that paradoxically makes him sound uneasy, and he stands just a little too close to his friend for Western sensibilities, like he thinks he might need to suddenly intervene. “Hanzo, Jesse McCree.”

But all McCree does is extend his hand. Hanzo takes it, and is utterly unsurprised by the harsh grip. McCree shakes his hand, not so much smiling as baring his teeth, and there is a threat burning plainly in his eyes. As Hanzo squeezes the rough hand in his palm just as hard, all he can think is _ good _. Genji’s other friends and allies have been too trusting, only mustering a wary politeness for someone who by rights should have died in Hanamura in the spring. Hanzo knows he could never deliberately hurt his brother again, but they could only ever take his word for it. McCree’s bald distrust is perversely refreshing. At least there will now be someone here, finally, with judgement that can be trusted. 

* * *

At first, McCree’s addition to their ranks changes almost nothing for Hanzo. He makes himself useful where he can, then limits himself to interacting with only Genji and only for as long as they both can stand it otherwise. He mostly sees McCree, like everyone else, in passing.

Sometimes, in those rare moments when he is drawn into the larger group, he feels the eerie weight of being watched, but he never catches McCree looking. After a while, he stops trying. It isn't as if he is not watching McCree in turn.

Hanzo can admit to himself he's curious, primarily because McCree is Genji's friend but also because the man seems to be a walking contradiction. His reputation wouldn't bring to mind a man at home with attention, but he seems comfortable in the thick of things at the Watchpoint. He's loud, both in dress and manner, but as much as he talks he never seems to reveal much of substance about himself. He lets his thick, backwater accent obscure his clever mind—he plays several of the new guard out of their desirable chores in a poker game the first week—and his smiles only rarely reach his eyes—Genji, Miss Amari, and Dr. Ziegler seem to get the warmest regard. He is hiding in plain sight, though to what end Hanzo isn’t sure.

Hanzo himself receives very little of the act, which he prefers. McCree might be suspicious but he remains professional. It only takes a few deployments for a grudging respect to grow, at least on Hanzo’s part. McCree’s reputation is well-earned, it seems, and it is something of a relief to have another mercenary when things go south. 

* * *

Understaffed, underfunded, and under-informed, things go south often. 

Hanzo’s shoulders burn from exertion, but he refuses to falter. If he does, then the cartel members will be free to gun down his brother and the rest of the squad, who are making a mad retreat down a long, open stretch of pavement toward cover.

No one was supposed to be here; they were only meant to attempt to identify the origin of a cache of weapons and tip off the local authorities before they could be sold. Luck, however, never seems to be on their side.

Hanzo looses another arrow, cognizant of his dwindling supply. Chips of brick hit him as they fire back, missing wildly. He didn’t get a good enough look before all hell broke loose to estimate the enemy’s numbers, but he’s only definitively killed four. Voices are buzzing in his ear, but he can’t pay attention and keep his focus.

He fires again. He thinks that might have been his fifth kill, but he wasted a precious second fumbling for the arrow. He knows he might have to perform a summoning, but he dreads it. He doesn’t know if the dragons will sate themselves on the cartel members or turn on his comrades. They grew unwieldy in exile; he can no longer predict their behavior.

Hanzo’s fingers linger on the fletching of the next arrow, as he weighs the horror of seeing his brother gunned down against him attacked by the dragons again. Maybe if he warned him, Genji could summon his own, protect himself as he had in Hanamura—

The sudden appearance of a van forestalls Hanzo’s decision. His first thought is that reinforcements have arrived, but the van barrels directly into the wall of the warehouse, crashing through and surely killing at least a few more of the cartel goons. Hanzo almost misses the flash of red rolling on the ground some number of meters away. It couldn’t be—but it is. McCree. Somehow he’d bypassed the security on the van and gotten here in time to make a distraction. 

McCree scrambles back to his feet and bolts, running back around the corner of the warehouse. Why becomes obvious a moment later when a fireball blows out the windows. He must have rigged the batteries in the van to blow, or at least tampered with them enough a crash would make that likely. The cartel pours out in a panic, apparently forgetting about Hanzo.

Hanzo starts picking them off with what ammunition he has left. Surely Genji and the others made it, but McCree will now need the distraction of covering fire if he's to escape. He’s about to call out a warning about his dwindling ammunition, when McCree steps back out of the smoke. 

He raises his pistol—Hanzo sees something glint red under the brim of his hat but it must be a trick of the light—and then he fires. The shots come so quickly it’s like one long noise, cracking through the air like thunder. The remaining cartel members drop lifelessly to the ground.

McCree steps across the carnage, careful to avoid stepping in blood, and almost idly dumps the spent cartridges from his gun. There’s something almost cocky in the way he walks, and that would be annoying if Hanzo wasn’t preoccupied with trying to understand how he’d accomplished it all with a revolver. A revolver with iron sights and a kick like a furious horse, no less.

It’s one thing to know that someone is dangerous, but seeing it is an entirely different thing. A traitorous part of Hanzo would be happy to see it again.

Hanzo swallows, trying to wet his suddenly dry mouth, and hooks his bow over his shoulders to free his hands for the climb down. He surveys the scene one last time out of habit, and that’s when he sees the straggler. He’s clearly hurt, but he’s charging toward McCree. Hanzo wrenches his bow off himself and reaches back for an arrow, but his hand grasps only empty air.

“McCree! Behind you!” Hanzo shouts helplessly. McCree spins on his heel, and instead of trying to reload he flips his weapon in his grip and whips it directly into the man’s face. He staggers, stunned, and McCree follows with a left hook that sends him crumpling to the ground. McCree kicks his gun away and steps back, waiting to see if he’ll get up. A moment passes, but the man doesn’t stir. When McCree starts moving again, he picks up the pace, making sure to reload this time.

For his part, Hanzo stays put, watching McCree fall back. He may not be able to do much more than call a warning, but that was just enough. Only once he’s safe with the others does Hanzo make his descent and wind his way back to where their transport is waiting, painfully aware that he is limited to close quarter combat should trouble appear.

That, as much as it should, does not trouble Hanzo the most. Danger had always presented an unmistakable allure. Hanzo wasn't sure where the predilection had come from, only that it was there. And McCree in action, well—

It would be best if Hanzo put the last few minutes out of mind. Forever, ideally.

Hanzo makes it back to the rendezvous without trouble, the only bit of luck anyone has had all day. His first priority is Genji, as it always is. He can’t bring himself to do more than look, but he carefully compares Genji against his mental picture of what he should look like. There are a few smudges on his armor, but that’s the worst of it. He briefly looks over everyone else, but there are no grievous injuries to be seen. If nothing else, he was at least able to put down enough covering fire to facilitate the retreat.

Anxiety assuaged, he starts to prepare for the flight back. He prefers the relative quiet of the upper compartment at the back of the aircraft, and that is where he left his gear. He breaks Stormbow down for travel and puts away his empty quiver. He might have to consider a way to bring more ammunition if there are more missions like this one. It is a problem for later though. He stretches his aching shoulders slowly, trying to soothe the muscles before they get any worse, and settles himself in a jumpseat.

He does not expect McCree to approach him. Though he saw McCree climb the stairs, he’s still almost surprised when he stops at the top. He and McCree regard each other for a moment, Hanzo wary and McCree, well, something uneasy.

“Thanks.” McCree’s voice curls up faintly, like it’s a question. “For the warnin’, that is.”

“I was only doing my job,” Hanzo replies, far more evenly than he feels. 

“Well, thanks for bein’ good at your job then.”

Hanzo only nods, unsure of what, precisely, is actually happening. Maybe this is some kind of truce, or at least an acknowledgment of professional respect. There’s certainly no trace of the casual friendliness McCree extends the rest of the agents. In fact, he seems distinctly uncomfortable. 

“Well, we’re takin’ off in five.”

McCree turns and leaves without waiting for a response, leaving Hanzo puzzling over the odd exchange.

* * *

Hanzo blames it on his dry spell. McCree wouldn’t be the first fellow mercenary to have that particular mix of fitness and competence that piques Hanzo’s interest, though he is the first one he’s spent any significant time near. It’s annoying, certainly, but manageable. Surely it will fade with time.

* * *

It is absurd to have a casualty on so simple a mission, but here they are. 

It hardly even qualifies for the moniker. Dr. Zhou simply wanted to collect some old prototypes from the Greenland Ecopoint she hoped to expand on. Only an abundance of caution saw Hanzo and McCree accompany her. Decommissioned Ecopoints have hardly been a target for anything but wildlife and the occasional scrap thief. 

Hanzo’s annoyance is tempered by the fact that it is Dr. Zhou who is hurt, and that she simply couldn’t have predicted the step would give as suddenly as it had. Unfortunately, her reflexes are not are honed as her mind, but Hanzo caught her by the arm before she fell further. At least it appears she only has a sprained ankle and not a break. That, and they also found what they were looking for.

Hanzo was her makeshift crutch out of the Ecopoint, but he found he didn’t mind. Her determination to walk out under her own power was admirable. Besides, McCree is far too tall and Lena was waiting with the Orca. 

They finally navigate their way up the ramp, McCree following behind carrying their crate of spoils. Lena leans out of the stairway to the cockpit, her face immediately falling.

“Oh, are you alright, love?”

“Fine,” Dr. Zhou answers, quite short by her standards. Lena winces.

“I’ll get us back then, nice and quick.”

Hanzo opens his mouth, but hesitates, just a beat, thinking over his words. Lena notices and arches an eyebrow.

“Perhaps a smooth flight might be preferable to a quick one,” he says, hopefully without sounding demanding.

“Ah, good point.”

Dr. Zhou sighs, and Hanzo doesn’t waste time wondering if it sounds relieved or not. He helps her hobble to the bench seat and starts gathering anything soft to elevate her foot. She murmurs her thanks with a tight smile, settling in for what will probably seem an exceedingly long flight. Out of things he knows to do, he pauses awkwardly, but then he hears McCree mutter,

“Where’s than damn kit.”

“Left of the cockpit,” Hanzo replies, and, sensing he’s being relieved, he goes to where he left Stormbow’s case and begins stowing it away. 

“We probably oughta get that wrapped ‘fore the swellin’ gets any worse.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

Hanzo watches out of the corner of his eye as McCree helps her get her boot off and weaves a bandage around Dr. Zhou’s ankle. Her mouth is pressed into a grim line, but McCree doesn’t seem to be adding to her distress. No, by the look of things he’s actually quite gentle. His hands are sure and quick, and he’s pinning the end of the elastic bandage in place a few scant moments after Hanzo started looking. With no less care, McCree helps her guide her foot to the pile Hanzo made to elevate her foot.

“That oughta hold you ‘til we get back and Doc can get a look. ‘Course, she might decide to cut it off.”

“_Jesse! _” Dr. Zhou shouts, batting his arm with the backs of her fingers. She sounded affronted, but there’s a genuine smile on her face. To Hanzo’s ears, that was in questionable taste at best, but Dr. Zhou seems both amused and distracted from her injury. McCree continues the teasing for a moment emboldened, seemingly, by her response. He even gets Dr. Zhou laughing, high and bright.

That’s when it happens—Hanzo sees the cheerfully mischievous look on McCree’s face. This smile is inviting, warm and willing to let you in on the joke. Worst of all, it seems completely genuine. Like he really is pleased to have made Dr. Zhou laugh at a moment like this. It’s like the sun peeking out from behind the clouds, and it warms coals in Hanzo’s chest he’d thought had long since burnt out.

The smiles lasts until McCree’s eyes land on Hanzo, and then it vanishes like it was never there at all. Instead, there’s something coolly neutral, and it chills Hanzo in a way he’s unaccustomed. McCree walks past him to the cockpit, and Hanzo tries to go back to stowing his gear. If only he could stow that realization away as easily. 

* * *

That smile haunts Hanzo. He tries to forget, but it, much like the display with the cartel, it won’t stay gone. He catches himself watching McCree’s lips for echoes of it, hating himself as he does it. So what if McCree contains both a lethal competence and a genuine brightness? It will never be something Hanzo can partake.

* * *

It is as if Hanzo has no self-discipline whatsoever.

It would be easy to ignore McCree—he had accomplished it without even trying before—but some loathsome part of of him keeps seeking him out. He feels almost bewitched. Or perhaps just foolish.

He drifts into McCree’s periphery more often than is seemly, trying to glimpse that brightness he saw. He does, sometimes, and it hurts like twisting the sweetest knife.

McCree’s opinion of him is well founded, and Hanzo has no desire to put them through the process of forcing McCree to reject him. His pride seems to still be intact, at least. He hopes this will pass, even as he feeds it. It is making Gibraltar almost unbearable.

Hanzo chooses to fix the broken ceiling lights in the motorpool—a task he’s taken ownership of since it is both useful and gives him an excuse to practice free climbing the two stories up to the trusses where they’re mounted—as McCree and Miss Amari are unloading the truck below. He listens to them laugh and snipe at each other with a familial kind of casualness as they work. It’s a bittersweet accompaniment—McCree’s low, rolling voice fills the space, but Hanzo can’t help but be reminded of Genji. When they were little boys, perhaps they’d been as close, but they would have been very, very little. Hanzo wonders if Genji would even remember. Not that he could ever bring himself to ask.

Preoccupied, Hanzo lets a bolt slip through his fingers. He winces in anticipation of the sharp _ ping _ of it hitting the concrete floor below. It somehow manages to hit when neither McCree nor Miss Amari are speaking, so it’s damningly loud.

“Shit!” McCree shouts, startled. “Where the fuck—”

“My apologies,” Hanzo says. “It was only a small bolt, nothing to worry about,” he adds, a little lamely.

“You’re going to give him a complex, Shimada” Miss Amari says, almost laughing. Perhaps that’s some old joke. She pokes McCree in the side repeatedly until he slaps her hand away. 

“What in the sam hell are you doin’ up there, anyway?”

Hanzo gestures to the half affixed light. The nuances of McCree’s expression are lost at height, but Hanzo isn’t sure he could have read it up close. It is perhaps a bit bewildered, if it is anything.

McCree bends over to pick up the bolt Hanzo dropped, inspecting closely.

“Looks okay. You need it?”

“Yes, but—”

“Catch!”

Before Hanzo can stop him, McCree pitches the bolt upwards left-handed. It sails up, right toward Hanzo’s chest. Hanzo catches it against himself, making sure to have a firm grip this time. Below, McCree is smiling crookedly, presumably proud of the throw. 

That was entirely unnecessary. Hanzo can feel his face heating. His only saving grace is that he’s high enough up neither of them can see.

“Ah, um. Thank you, McCree,” he remembers too say, after a painfully long pause.

* * *

Even when Hanzo manages to regain some of his self-control, fate seems to conspire against him. 

He is standing in the pantry, trying to decide which of the available MREs he wants to eat. He might also be procrastinating. He is hungry, but the only good thing about the prepackaged meals is that they are within his meager culinary wheelhouse to prepare. 

That, and they can be eaten in his room.

Finally giving up, he picks one at random and tucks it under his arm. Maybe it will have a dessert that’s not terrible. As he starts out, he hears voices. Out of habit, he pauses and tries to discern who it is. 

Song, Oxton, Amari at first dominate, but then he hears his brother, which pulls him up short. Then, to his chagrin, he also hears McCree.

McCree and his brother are telling some story in tandem, interrupting themselves and each other with laughter. The context is lost, but their obvious enjoyment isn’t. Hanzo listens to McCree’s measured drawl and imagines the wry little smile he must be wearing. It takes him far too many moments to realize he is eavesdropping. He calculates what harm is actually being done, and decides there’s none, really, but what he’s doing to himself.

Realizing it he'll have to explain himself if someone finds him hovering in the pantry, he resolves to leave. They are all gathered around the range for the moment, and Hanzo slips by on silent feet. If he walks a little too slowly down the hall, well, no one knows but him.

* * *

Hanzo shakes his head, trying to clear the ringing in his skull. He spends one long moment suspended in delirium, then his memory comes crashing back. 

They were lured into an ambush. A Talon Heavy had fired on him in particular. A furious noise slips through Hanzo’s gritted teeth. That will not go unanswered. 

“—saw them firing on him. Shimada, do you copy!” Miss Amari’s voice replaces the high g tone. He can see the light from her booster assembly against the night sky as it fires to keep her in place a few blocks and tens of meters up.

“I hear you, Amari.”

His fingers are still tight around Stormbow and, glancing to his right, he sees it’s still intact. He feels over his shoulder and finds arrows. The quiver did it’s job. 

“Okay, good, because you need to fall the hell back before they realize you aren’t mulch.”

Hanzo flips himself over and crawls to the edge of what remains of the low wall that ringed this particular roof. He can see several Talon units set up on a nearby rooftop, and others on the ground. The ground squads the rest of the team should be able to handle, especially with Miss Amari in the air, but that squad on the high ground will be able to rain down on them as they try to fight their way through. They also pose a direct threat to Miss Amari, though surely she’s seen them. He assumes that’s why she’s not come closer. 

“Negative. I am engaging with the threat on the rooftop.”

“I’m comin’! Just wait a sec, damn you,” McCree shouts.

“No need.”

Satisfied everyone else is far enough away, Hanzo digs deep, finds the thread of the sleeping dragons. He should send them along with an arrow, but his anger clouds his judgment, so instead of speaking the incantation and letting them loose, he keeps them trapped in his skin. He feels their power arcing through him, intoxicating and exhilarating, and he feels their furious hunger. 

Hanzo rises to his feet and takes a few steps back. Then he runs, pushing off from the wall, and sails across the gap between buildings on strength that’s not entirely his own. He lands in a roll right behind the Talon squad, who spin in shock. Hanzo charges the nearest one, discharging the wrath of the dragons into him. The feedback burns, but their delight washes over the pain. He knows he will have to free them properly, or he will risk losing control while they’re still trapped within him. 

But not until he shows that Heavy the error of his ways. The dragons let him move faster than any man should, and he draws an arrow, clenching it in his fist. He ducks left at the last moment, slipping under the chain gun, and climbs the back of the Heavy’s armor, driving the arrow into a gap. It breaches the bodysuit easily, and there Hanzo releases the dragons. 

They explode around him, bright and formless at first, then they take shape.The Talon squad screams in terror, firing indiscriminately at the beasts as if it will do any good. Hanzo crouches behind the corpse of the Heavy, letting his armor absorb the stray rounds. 

The dragons paint the ground with flickering shadows, fill the air with a thrumming that beats like a heart, clear despite the screaming and gunfire. Hanzo breathes heavily, like it is him doing the fighting. 

It’s over almost as quickly as it began. Hanzo feels the dragons return, settling like static around his bones. He doesn’t feel entirely connected to his body. It’s not weakness exactly, more like the jittery feeling that comes with adrenaline, though his mind is clear. It’ll pass. It always does.

Hanzo feels wetness on his upper lip. He wipes under his nose—his hand comes back bloody. He shouldn’t have held them like that, not when he’s so long out of practice.

“Shimada, what ever the fuck that was, they saw it. They’re converging on your position!” Miss Amari calls.

“Roger.”

Hanzo gets back to his feet. He can hear the shouting below him. He’s not only eliminated one threat, but also distracted the rest of their forces. Hopefully that will make falling back easier for everyone else.

He can’t fight off a full assault by himself up here, not without a second summoning. He wipes his nose again, but the blood keeps coming. A second so soon after the first might leave him even more vulnerable should it fail to be enough. The most obvious course of action is to go back the way he came. 

Hanzo takes a longer run up this time, leaps into the space with all his strength. The weightless moment as momentum carries him stretches, seconds running long as the perpetual uncertainty that _ this _ jump was his final misjudgement spins out into reality. 

Hanzo’s feet hit the low wall, but as he leans forward to disperse the force, he realizes something is wrong.

The wall, damaged from the previous assault, gives way underneath him. He tries to push off, to salvage his position, but the crumbling bricks can’t offer him anything to push against. He reaches out helplessly, trying to catch anything at all. But it is pointless. 

He is falling.

Then, a hand snatches his, yanks almost hard enough to dislocate his arm from its socket. Hanzo pitches forward and lands gracelessly on the roof across someone’s legs.

McCree’s legs, to be precise.

Hanzo gapes up at him like a speared fish, unable to make sense of what just happened. It occurs to him far too late that he’s pinning McCree down and he should move, but he’s still clumsy with astonishment and only manages to shove himself up enough for McCree to free his own legs.

“You—” Hanzo’s jaw works, but he can’t seem to find any other words. 

“Yeah, me,” McCree says, tone indecipherable.

“You could have just let me fall.”

Hanzo knows he’s stating obvious things, but he can’t seem to stop. McCree squints at him, tongue peeking out to wet his lips, then he pushes himself upright. Bizarrely, he offers Hanzo a hand, which Hanzo is baffled enough to take. McCree hauls him back to his feet easily. His firm grip now exists in an entirely new space, no longer a threat on the tarmac but a lifeline.

“Best not hang around here,” McCree says, turning toward the fire escape on the far side of the building.

Hanzo follows, unable to do anything else. He knows what McCree thinks of him. He can’t even fault the man. 

Besides, Hanzo had taken a risk he probably shouldn’t have, and he was about to pay for his hubris. Even that end was probably better than he deserved. McCree _ knew _ that.

So why?

Hanzo still hasn’t come to an answer by the time they arrive back in Gibraltar. Genji was furious with him, and even Hanzo had agreed the risk was unnecessary. Hanzo had eventually placated his brother with promises to be more careful they both knew he wouldn't keep. 

He strides off the Orca, hoping to find something to eat and sleep off the summoning, but it’s not to be. McCree corners him almost immediately.

“What?” Hanzo meant to snap, but his voice only sounds tired even to his own ears.

“About earlier—” McCree pauses and squares his shoulders. “You know I couldn’t have just let you fall?”

Hanzo frowns. Couldn’t he have though? He tries to work backward, to find something that could have inspired such an idea in McCree. He finds one, though even to him it seems a reach.

“Did you think you owed me after the incident with that cartel? Fine, we are even.”

“No, _ no _, that ain’t how this works. There’s no tit-for-tat.”

“Then _ how _ does it work?” 

McCree chews his lip for a moment, looking genuinely upset about something. The sight of McCree’s lower lip pinned between his teeth distracts Hanzo entirely for a moment. He curses his exhaustion for eroding his self-control. Finally, McCree speaks, giving Hanzo something else to focus on.

“You need to understand somethin’ about me,” McCree says slowly. “I ain’t in the habit of leavin’ my people to die. So long as we’re both with Overwatch, that means you too. No countin’ up who owes who, no debts followin’ us back from the field.”

“I hardly—”

“_Look _. Genji’s made it clear to the rest of us that we’re to keep out of what’s between y’all. You’ve been more than reliable enough, somehow settin’ aside all that. If we were all lookin’ over our shoulders out there, we’re gonna start rackin’ up real casualties. You get it?”

Hanzo does, but then he really, really doesn’t. Still, he nods. That seems to satisfy McCree.

“Okay then. Glad we understand each other."

* * *

Hanzo still isn't sure how he ended up in the mess, let alone telling a story. It must have been because he was delayed in his usual escape. He rolls a bottle of beer between his hands, stalling for time as he tries to choose his words to fit his audience. Up till now, it had been a passable comedy of errors, but an accurate retelling of the next few moments would entail how he broke a man’s collarbone, and _ that _ would dampen the mood considerably. Finally, he says,

"Then I escorted him to the floor."

From behind, he hears someone snort then chuckle. 

"Well damn if that's not the nicest way I've ever heard someone say 'Then I kicked his ass'."

McCree still has a crooked smile on his face as he rejoins the group, his hands full of open bottles of beer. They clink together but don't spill as he sets them on the table, taking one and jumping back as if the others will trample him to get theirs. Hanzo takes a sip of his own, now painfully warm, to cover whatever his traitorous face is doing. It means nothing, he knows, but knowing that low chuckle started with him still feels like a victory. 

Lucio, after a moment of consideration, offers a more oblique euphemism, and then suddenly McCree is the judge of a macabre little poetry contest. Hanzo is relieved to have the focus elsewhere, to be frank, and watching McCree grin and laugh is infinitely preferable.

Hanzo finishes his beer for the excuse of disposing of the empty bottle, and slips over to the bin. A quick glance confirms no one is paying him any mind, all eyes are on McCree. Hanzo darts out the door, and once he's alone he allows himself a smile.

* * *

_ He swings the sword, burying it in the soft belly of his opponent. He grabs helplessly at the blade, wide eyed with mortal panic. Blood pours out from the cut, soaking flannel and chaps until they’re almost black. There’s a small, pathetic whimper, then he falls. _

_ Only then does the gravity of what he’s done hit Hanzo. He drops the sword and looks down at his hands. They are slick and red with McCree’s blood. _

Hanzo wakes with a shout. The sheet is wrapped around him, too close, too much, and he thrashes trying to free himself. He doesn’t realize how close he is to the edge of the bed, and in his haste to get free, he twists back into nothing.

His stomach jumps into his throat as he falls, and, still half in his nightmare, he confuses it for his near miss earlier that day. Sheer animal panic, cloying and consuming, is a white hot static in this skull, and it seems to go on forever.

Then he hits the floor with enough force to empty his lungs, knocking him back into reality. He lies there, breathless, until the Watchpoint ceiling resolves above him and his reflexes remember themselves enough to gulp down the humid air. He doesn’t want to look at his hands, even though he knows they are surely clean.

For a long time, Hanzo doesn't move. The floor under his shoulders is cold, grounding. Reminds him of where and when he is. He tries to slow his frantic breathing, hopes his heart will follow suit.

He has nightmares like that often enough, but never about someone other than Genji. 

Somehow that realization is enough to make him want to move. He kicks the sheet free from the one foot it’s still encircling, then gets to his feet. Sleep is absolutely out of the question. Being in this room one moment longer seems almost as awful. 

Hanzo pulls on sweatpants, shoes, and a tank top, then slowly opens the door. At this time of night the red strip lights in the floor are the only illumination, but that's enough to see that there's no one else wandering through the gloom. Hanzo pads down the hall towards the gym. If he can't sleep he can at least do something worthwhile.

The lights in the gym are harsh and blue after the dark, but they do banish the last drowsy cobwebs from his mind. He starts with the treadmill to warm up, then moves to the free weights. 

It doesn't take him long to lose himself in the exertion. There's just his body, repeating a routine that's almost reflex. He finds this comes much easier than meditation these days, clears his head just as well. 

Eventually, Hanzo lets himself flop back onto the mat, breathing hard and muscles burning in a way that's almost pleasant. The memory of the nightmare has lost its teeth, become something that can be contained. One more demon, sitting in the strongbox with all the others.

He lies there until he begins to feel clammy and claustrophobic in his sweat soaked clothes. A shower is in order, and by then the sun might be up. He’ll no longer have to excuse being up and about then, at least. Hanzo gets up with a groan and wipes down the equipment he used, then starts for the door. 

He isn’t expecting to run into anyone else. It takes everything in him not to slam them into a wall. Even so, his hands are still raised incriminatingly. 

“What the shit are you doin’ up?”

It’s only McCree. Hanzo lowers his hands. 

“I could ask you the same thing.” 

McCree huffs.

“All right, you got me there.”

They stand for a moment in ever increasing silence. Hanzo isn’t sure how to extricate himself, and for some reason McCree seems unwilling to simply up and leave like he’s accustomed. Staring at McCree in the dark, he feels guilt bubble up, as if McCree’s inclusion in Hanzo’s nightmares was some slight. The way McCree is staring at him, wide brown eyes strangely intense, it almost seems like he knows.

“How about I offer you a cigar and we definitely don’t talk about why we’re both up.”

Hanzo, like a fool, accepts. 

It isn’t the first time Hanzo has been awake in the predawn moments at Gilbraltar, but it is the first time he’s taken the time to really just look. The sky looks bruised at the horizon, the stars there fading against the first hints of dawn. The ocean, vast and implacatable, stretches out to meet the sky, and a chill breeze almost makes Hanzo shiver. 

McCree hands him a cigar and holds out his lighter, already lit. Anymore, Hanzo doesn’t generally go to the trouble of getting cigars when he needs to scratch this particular itch, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy them. The rich notes of the smoke sit on his tongue, and he savors it.

McCree leans over the railing, close but not encroaching on his space. This silence is almost pleasant, but McCree breaks it.

“So what really happened when you “escorted” that fella to the floor.”

His tone is decidedly amused. Hanzo ashes the cigar over the railing, looking at McCree askance. 

“Well, _ escorted _ might have been a bit of an understatement.”

“No shit.”

“It might have been—” Hanzo gestures vaguely with the cigar. “Something akin to full fledged assault.” McCree is smirking at him, eyes twinkling. “He was an—unsavory man, even by our standards, and highly uncooperative. Who, in the middle of being turned in for a bounty, launches into a lecture about bunk psychology anyway? The _appalling_ guesses he made about my mother." Hanzo shakes his head. "I'm fairly certain he was wanted alive only so the client could kill him themselves.”

"Thought that a time or two myself," McCree says, laughter bubbling up.

“How about you?” 

“Hmm?”

“If I had to tell a story, then you give me one.”

It’s bold, but something in this strange moment is making Hanzo comfortable with boldness. 

“All right, how about—” McCree stalls by taking another drag off the cigar. “The first time I fucked up after tryin’ the straight and narrow.” 

Hanzo arcs an eyebrow, already interested. Jesse sketches a tale of youthful misadventure, the patina of time lending the whole escapade a more harmlessly mischievous air that it probably had in the moment. McCree’s eyes are bright and his laughter comes easily as he talks, clearly fond of the memory. 

Hanzo listens raptly and pretends it means anything at all that he’s sharing it. 

* * *

McCree’s tolerance is far worse than his hostility, Hanzo decides. It’s not hope, exactly, that winds thorns behind his ribs, but it’s something like it. He is constantly tempted by something he cannot have, and his imagination runs wild with the new fodder, spinning out fantasies when McCree’s smiles or teasing find their mark in him. 

He no longer just wonders what that body would feel like pinned under him, he wants to know how McCree’s hands would feel reaching back. He wonders if he could make that voice drop lower, make that drawl get thicker, if he had the chance. Wonders if McCree’s whiskey tastes better on his lips.

It’s much, much worse, but Hanzo wouldn’t trade it for anything.

* * *

Some days, it is like he and Genji are almost family. Not as close as McCree and Miss Amari, but they can exist together with some measure of peace. There are even moments that remind Hanzo of their boyhood, few though they are.

Other days are like this. 

Hanzo is pacing a lonesome walkway near the comm tower, his bitter regret sitting heavy on his mind. He has no place snapping at Genji. It should be easy to avoid falling into those patterns they had as young men, the ones that lead him here, but Hanzo cannot seem to avoid it completely. It's as if clashing with Genji is a fundamental part of his being, ready to assert itself when Hanzo lets his guard down.

How can it be so difficult to remain civil with his brother?

Hanzo should have brought something to drink with him, but, no, he had to storm away, didn’t he? The embarrassment burns almost as hot as the frustration. What must Genji think of him?

Why is Genji still trying, when Hanzo is clearly so incapable of improvement?

Hanzo hears footsteps coming up the stairs. He almost snaps at whoever it is to leave, but this is part of his problem, isn’t it? Instead he bites his tongue and waits to see who will crest the stairs.

Bizarrely, it is McCree. 

From the look on his face, he already knows what has transpired. Why he’s here is a mystery Hanzo doesn’t care to fathom.

“Come to put me out of my misery?” Hanzo means it in jest, though he knows it’s a tasteless joke. McCree snorts.

“Sorry, no can do.”

Hanzo turns away from him, retreating around the comm tower. It feels like running away, but it’s not as if Hanzo has any dignity left to reclaim. McCree, though, follows him.

“Did Genji send you?” Hanzo bites out.

“Kinda. He’s still coolin’ off, but he also didn’t want you to take a drunken tumble off somethin’.”

“He should.” Hanzo’s surprised at his own bitterness. 

“Oh, please—”

“No,” Hanzo growls, leaning into his hands. “It would have been kinder to kill me.”

“Simpler, maybe,” McCree says after a moment. The smell of smoke suddenly fills the air despite the sea breeze. “But not kinder.”

“How are you so sure?”

“It’s always kinder to give folks a second shot. More of ‘em than you’d think make real use of it.”

“I’m not sure I count among that number.”

“You’d be surprised, I expect.”

For a moment, they fall quiet. The smoke make Hanzo want a cigarette, but he left those in his bunk as well. 

“Suppose, to his mind, this definitely counts for somethin’.”

“What?”

“I mean, he believes in this. In Overwatch. For some damn reason.”

Hanzo almost laughs, incredulous. 

“You don’t?”

“Nah,” McCree snorts. “Wouldn’t have even come if Genji hadn’t sicced ‘Ree on me after I started ignorin’ him.”

Hanzo stares hard at McCree. He always assumed his motivations were similar to Genji’s—hoping to resurrect some symbol of better days. 

“I had always assumed Genji had convinced you.”

“Oh, no, nothin’ like that. After a couple weeks of me tellin’ him he was nuts, he faked bein’ a client then put ‘Ree on the line. She was spittin’ mad. Threatened to—” McCree stops to clear his throat, almost like he’s embarrassed. “Well, let’s just say I fucked up some a while ago and she let me know it how I could make it right.”

Hanzo opens his mouth before he realizes he has nothing to say. Jesse, however, continues without his prompting.

“Even if I didn't owe her, I couldn’t very well let her do this without backup. It’d kill me if somethin’ happened, and I could’ve been here. She always wanted this, you know, to be a part of Overwatch. She grew up in the shadow of a damn superhero, then had to watch it all come down. Least her ma’s name never got drug through the mud.”

McCree ashes his cigar. Something somber and contemplative settles over him. Hanzo watches him stare out over the water, the gentle fading light catching his features. If they were anywhere else, if he were anyone else, Hanzo would have reached for him. 

But they are not and he is not.

“Both of ‘em are bugfuck crazy though,” McCree mutters, shaking his head and dispelling the moment. “Guess we got that in common.”

Hanzo huffs, not quite willing to agree.

“Anyway, don’t shut down on him, all right? You keep workin’ and they’re'll be somethin’ worth havin’ at the end.”

McCree reaches out and claps him on the shoulder. His hand is heavy and warm, and Hanzo has to fight to not lean into it. 

“I suppose we’ll have to see.”

* * *

It's far too quiet. 

Hanzo's nerves are on edge as he and McCree creep along an abandoned block. This neighborhood looks as if it was completely forgotten after the Crisis. The buildings are only fit to house rats and display the graffiti decorating them. Even the graffiti looks old, like the street artists were also put off by the eerie silence long ago.

It would perhaps be a good place for stolen goods, except that any activity at all would be suspicious. He's only half looking for the correct building, instead mostly focused on all the potential cover around them. Hanzo thinks the intel that led them there was at best flawed. At worst, another ambush.

The mere thought has him primed to react.

He scans the roof lines again, but this time he sees a glint in one broken window. Nothing here is clean enough to reflect light. A sniper scope, however, certainly would. 

Hanzo doesn’t even shout a warning, he just tackles McCree—hard—throwing the man off his feet to the pavement behind a stoop. His shocked yelp is lost in the report of the rifle. 

He feels the impact of the shot first, then the agony of having his chest torn open. He’s been shot before but never in the chest, so the particular misery of having the atmosphere rushing and crowding his lungs from the wrong side is a horrific novelty. McCree is staring up at him, unharmed but stunned.

“Well, fuck,” Hanzo says with what little air he has. 

Then he falls. 

Hitting the ground short circuits his nervous system, whites it out with pain. Somewhere, there might have been more gunshots, but Hanzo isn’t sure. They didn’t put him out of this fresh hell, so he certainly doesn’t care. 

Someone rolls him onto his back—McCree. He still looks okay. It’s a small comfort. McCree presses both palms over the entry wound, bearing down hard enough to drag a weak noise from Hanzo’s throat.

“Hanzo’s down! Chest wound! Someone get here _ now_!” he bellows, scant centimeters from Hanzo’s face. He winces, can’t help it.

_ Inbound! _Dr. Ziegler’s voice is calm over the comm.

_ Hanzo?! Shit, Hanzo, just hold on! _ Genji, much less calm. 

“Genji, I got him, just make sure Doc gets here!”

Staring up at McCree, his hands on Hanzo’s chest and almost close enough to kiss, Hanzo realizes what a perfect mockery of what he wanted he’s finally gotten. Hanzo laughs, or tries to. The noise he makes is more gurgle than anything. Hanzo can taste blood in the back of his throat, bubbling up from his lung.

“I don’t see what’s funny,” McCree says tightly. His face is bloodless, teeth gritted. He almost looks frightened. Hanzo wonders what he has to be afraid of. Surely, he’s seen enough death to be sufficiently buttressed against one more.

He should feel more frightened, he thinks. Instead he decides to take a small liberty. Hanzo lifts his hand to grasp Jesse’s arm, to at least get a taste of what his skin feels like. It’s a struggle for such a simple thing, and his grip is so weak he’s uncertain he can keep his hand in place. McCree’s forearm is firm and warm, almost feverish. But then, maybe Hanzo’s just getting cold.

McCree though, misinterprets.

“I can’t let off, you’re bleedin’ too bad.” He sounds almost apologetic. As if he has anything to apologize for.

Hanzo wishes he could draw some of McCree's laughter out, or even just a smile, but McCree won’t even meet his eyes. McCree says something else, but his voice is somehow muddled, hard to hear. In some distant part of him, Hanzo recognizes the symptoms of shock. He is dying.

Hanzo finds the strength to reach up with his other hand, to brush his thumb over McCree’s lower lip. It’s as soft and warm as Hanzo could have hoped for. McCree looks at him, finally, and Hanzo smiles up at him. At least he gets to die knowing what that felt like. He lets his hand fall away.

“What?” McCree sounds as breathless as Hanzo.

Hanzo tries to draw in a deeper breath, enough to speak. It hurts, even through the shock, but he manages.

“Don’t regret it.” Another deep, raw breath. "Dying for you is not so bad."

“Shut up. You’re gonna be fine, y’hear?”

In spite of McCree’s bravado, darkness creeps in like twilight, dimming and graying what he can see. The pain, the chill, the futile struggle of his body fades too. McCree’s face is still close enough to see, mouth forming words, and some of them almost mimic a smile. That will have to be good enough. Hanzo lets his eyes fall closed.

But light blooms on the other side of his eyelids, hot and golden, and new hands join McCree's. Hanzo, though, has already slipped from consciousness.


End file.
